The Boston Massacre
by Lady Charity
Summary: After that one night, things were never the same between them. England and America in the Boston Massacre


_Damn you, America._

England grouchily rubbed his arms, urging them to grow warmer. The snow was leaking into his shoes and the bitter frost stung his skin. He didn't want to be here in Boston, babysitting a city because they wouldn't accept the tax raise too kindly. He desperately wanted a cup of tea. His lips were absolutely numb.

Goodness, why did America have to teach his people to be so mutinous? England was trapped in this city for much too long for his own liking. If he had to deal with another short-tempered colonist one more time…

"What's that little runt doing?" a fellow soldier beside him asked. England turned towards where the soldier was pointing to. In front of the custom house, a young boy was shouting harshly at Captain Lieutenant Goldfinch, a fellow Englishman,

"Just another upset colonist, I suppose," England said, shrugging. His freezing lips could barely form words. "They breed like rabbits here. Really, a nuisance."

England bitterly cursed America and his rebellious spirit. Couldn't the boy be obedient once in a while? These acts that the king passed were for the greater good. England's economy would improve, at least, and that was the main concern, wasn't it?

"See that?" England pointed out as the young boy stomped off angrily. "All done. They just need to release some pent-up energy every now and then. I guess all this restless disagreement among all those colonists can frustrate many."

The soldier raised an eyebrow at England but remained silent. The colonists were definitely not aggravated by the riotous attitudes. The soldier knew that and England knew that, but he was desperately clinging to the hope that perhaps America really wasn't trying to hurt England; maybe America was just confused and will soon come back to his senses.

But after that day's events, the chances were slim to none.

"The boy's back again," the soldier piped up a while later. Indeed, the furious boy from earlier was striding back towards the Custom House along with his own posse. England groaned inwardly as the mob's livid slanders lashed at Goldfinch.

"What are we going to do? Just stand here and do nothing?" snapped a private by the name of White.

"Captain Preston's orders were to stay at your post, Private," England reminded him quietly.

"You're more powerful than Captain Preston. You're _much _more powerful than him!" Private White hissed. "Just order me to break up that mob and everyone will be fine."

England gritted his teeth. The colonists didn't seem very violent. They hadn't any weapons with them; their slanders couldn't kill Captain Lieutenant Goldfinch. Just as he concluded this, a civilian swooped down towards the ground, packed a large snowball in his hands, and hurled it at Captain Lieutenant Goldfinch. It nailed him directly on his temple.

"Damn them," muttered Private White. He hoisted his musket onto his shoulder. "I'll be right back. I'll settle this."

"White—" England protested. Private White would be the last person to calm any civilian down. He watched nervously as White approached challenged the young instigator of the mob. After a volley of protests and retorts, White swung the musket onto Gerrish's head in one swift motion.

The young boy cried out in pain, stumbling back into his friends. England stiffened in shock and dread.

"What the hell was that for?" a man shouted. "Hitting young boys with a weapon—you should be ashamed of yourselves!"

Indignation became a magnet, attracting more and more people to surround the British soldiers. The once small gang now swelled into a massive throng. The men argued with the soldiers like a chorus. England clenched his teeth and sighed. His breath formed smoke in the nippy air.

"What do you think, Arthur?" Captain Preston's voice rang out from behind the nation. England whirled around.

"It'll cause even more trouble if more soldiers are around," England concluded.

The steeple bells clanged, adding to the raucous din. More people flocked to the group like curious children watching a peer being punished; unpleasant, but oh so satisfying to watch. England pursed his lips; Goldfinch and White could easily be overtaken by the humongous throng. They were only two people, for goodness' sake!

Dusk matured into late evening. The shriveled moon twinkled feebly, illuminating the gray slush. England was developing a headache. Why couldn't these Bostonians just go away? One little quarrel between a wigmaker's apprentice and an officer bloomed into this? He longed for a tavern. Why couldn't this just end?

"Arthur, let's just put a stop to this," Captain Preston said through gritted teeth. He motioned the men to organize themselves. The trained soldiers quickly straightened their backs, tightened their grips on their muskets, and swerved their attention towards their officer.

England stared at the captain with wide green eyes. Yes, he wanted this nonsense to end, but this was madness! The people could outnumber the soldiers. Someone was going to get hurt if too many were involved.

"For God's sake, take care of your men, for if they fire— your life must be answerable!" England cried.

"I'm sensible of it," the Captain said agitatedly. He immediately turned away from England.

"Fix on your bayonets; we're moving out, men!" Captain Preston ordered. The soldiers immediately attached the sharp bayonets onto their muskets. England did the same, but he was troubled. They weren't actually going to _use _the bayonets, were they?

"Stand by!" Captain Preston commanded as they pushed through the crowd. The people cried out in protest. England cast a glance at the rowdy pack of people. Perhaps he was mistaken, but it seemed like the flame in their eyes grew into a massive wildfire. There could've been about three hundred people surrounding them. They were like a swarm of ants clambering on top of each other.

"Damned rascally Scoundrel!"

"Lobster Son of a Bitch!"

An icy snowball slammed itself against England's chest. He shouted and stumbled back. The cold snow stealthily slipped through his uniform and burned his skin. He looked up furiously to reprimand the cursed man who dared pelt England with snowballs. However, almost the whole crowd was packing snow in their hands, anger melting in their eyes.

England slapped the snow crystals from his clothes. What were they mad at? England deserved to be mad. His chest was cold now. His headache was getting worse.

"England!"

England looked up immediately and nearly jumped in surprise. America was wrestling his way to the front of the crowd, his blue eyes wide with horror. No one noticed the two nations conversing; they were all too engrossed in abusing the British.

"What are you doing now?" America demanded harshly. "Can't you leave my people alone?"

"I should say the same to you!" England snarled. "If it weren't for your hotheaded Bostonians, none of us would be in this mess!"

"They wouldn't be so hotheaded if you stop abusing them!" America retorted. He was breathing heavily.

England opened his mouth to argue. Just as his lips parted, a horribly cold snowball slammed against his face. Shavings of snow entered his mouth and burned his tongue. England spat and wiped the snow out of his face before he was pelted by clam shells. His temper was steadily rising; it burned even more than the snow on his skin.

The British Soldiers threateningly held up their muskets as debris rained down on them. Like a charm, the colonists' fury became unquenchable.

"C'mon, you Lobster Backs, why don't you shoot?" a red-faced man spat at the soldiers.

"Shoot, you high-and-mighty kings!"

England glowered at America, blaming him for all this trouble with all his might. America could feel the hatred radiating from England. England's heart thumped like a war drum.

"Damn you, why don't you fire?" screamed a taunting voice.

"So mature, aren't your people?" England barked. He tightened his grip on his musket, prepared to knock down a pathway through the mob like the parting of the Red Sea if he had to. "Begging us to shoot you all down. Well, you know what?" England's voice was growing hysteric. America stared back at him defiantly. "Maybe we all should, shouldn't we? That would fix everything!"

America's eyes widened. He shook with anger at England's words. England didn't care anymore; he was enraged beyond words to think about what he said.

"Why don't you leave us alone?" America cried, his voice trembling with emotion. His thin cheeks reddened with anger. "God, why can't you just _leave us alone?_"

Something must've happened; England remembered seeing violence from the corner of his eyes. Just as he turned around, he saw a fellow soldier tumbled to the ground, clutching a wound from a club.

"_Damn you, fire!"_

And just like that, everything became smoke. Loud cracks pierced England's ears. He felt his hands clenching down on his musket so tight his muscles became sore. His musket shook in his hands on its own accord, as if it was alive. Shouts and moans echoed through the mob as splotches of dark, sickly red shone through the gunpowder smoke.

Just as soon as the gunfire erupted, it was cut off by shock. England coughed and waved his arm about to brush away the smoke that filled the scene. British soldiers hurriedly held up their rifles, shaken to the core with surprise, as screams of indignation came from the crowd.

"Hang them!" a frantic voice shrieked. "Hang them dead!"

England turned fiercely to the group, his mouth open to lash at them with biting words. His eyes widened. America was collapsed on the ground, blood streaming down his chest and dyeing the snow a gleaming sanguine. America struggled to sit up, wincing in pain at every movement before slumping down onto the snow, blood pouring out generously.

Right then and there, America was no longer the utterly infuriating rebel that frustrated England to pieces. England could only see his wounded baby brother sprawled on the ground. He whirled around towards his soldiers, his tongue burning with words of scolding and snarls, ready to demand who dared hurt America, until he glanced down at his own rifle. It was still smoking from gunfire_._

England nearly dropped his weapon in shock.

_--It wasn't me I didn't do it there were all these other men around me shooting towards them—_

—**America was directly in front of you, there was no way someone could've shot him if you were right there—**

—_They shot from the side they could've been beside me and still hit him I don't know it wasn't me—_

—**Who did you shoot then? You certainly shot somebody. You certainly killed—**

—_He can't die easily like humans it's so minor he won't die he'll be all right—_

—**He isn't a nation yet. He isn't considered that strong just now. Maybe he can still die—**

"Alfred!" England screamed out in terror. Some of America's friends were hoisting him up off the ground. He hissed in pain as he was pulled off the ground, blood streaming from his mouth. England wanted to run towards him and heal him and beg him to stop this revolting, this madness. Just as he was about to lift his foot to dash towards him, the colonists swarmed around the soldiers, blocking England from America, determined to protect their nation. England was completely besieged by fuming colonists , cornering him to the Custom House.

"Alfred!" England anxiously shouted. Over the crowd's heads, he could see America being supported by two Bostonians. He blearily opened his eyes; they were clouded with agony. England saw the blue eyes flicker towards his direction. He nearly backed into the wall with alarm when he saw pure rage cloud America's eyes. It was like a bullet straight into England's heart.

"America! AMERICA!" England cried desperately. America must've slipped into unconsciousness, for his eyes closed and he grew limp in his friends' arms, and they disappeared into the crowd. England struggled to wrestle away from the mob, but he was trapped in a cage of men.

England felt his blood run colder than ice water. He could barely hear the raised voices of the colonists or feel the Captain's rough hands dragging him away from the scene. He could only see America on the ground, bleeding from the wounds his big brother inflicted upon him.

_What have I done?_

**Okay, so I may have butchered up history a tad, but I did some research and even took out some quotations from primary sources, so I'm hoping that I did something right. **

**Apparently the whole thing started off when the wigmaker's apprentice accused Goldfinch of not paying his bills, but Goldfinch ignored him (he had, in fact, paid the bills). The apprentice, Gerrich, and his friends start arguing with the officer until Private White struck him on the head. Then it all went uphill from there. **

**Technically, the Boston Massacre wasn't a huge stepping stone towards the American Revolution, but it did serve pretty good propaganda. Adding the word 'massacre' to it was a good touch, since it technically wasn't considered a massacre. I suppose not enough people died to be counted as one (five people died from the Boston Massacre). **

**No one really knows who shouted "FIRE!" to the English, but most people think it was Captain Preston since he was the captain. However, he was supposedly standing between the soldiers and the mob, so it probably wasn't him because if he did, he was right in the line of fire. **

**I pretty much just wanted to play around with England and America's pre-Revolution relationship. I don't ship yaoi, but I think their relationship as ex-brothers is very interesting and deep. **

**I suppose that I will regret uploading this after a couple hours…**


End file.
